Everyone knows mermaids are Danish
by witchfingers
Summary: ... well, Norway didn't, but he's about to find out. /DenNor, actually NorwayXmermaid!Denmark, AU, crack/
1. magic is usual in Norway

D'n't own. Wish b't don't. I like Sw'den.

* * *

**plain EPIC**

Handsome, single, and very bored Norge Bondevik sits on the wooden deck, his legs dangling idly over the tempting water. Steam rises from the stormy surface, surreptitiously filling the evening air with scents of seawater and sweet boat varnish. The horizon is glazed over with the gossamer colors of a pearly autumn sunset, and the sea and quaint little piers seem to be part of a marine realm. It is very beautiful, he thinks, so beautiful it could somehow be unfair. He wishes he could paint that moment to make it his forever, and knowing he can't do that (even if he painted it, he could still not have it _to his own_) makes him, not only frustrated, but also slightly angry. With that passive kind of anger he has, that does him so little good.

With such gloomy thoughts in mind, he sighs. He should know that coming to Bergen isn't always the best of ideas, but sometimes, he can't help it. His uncle doesn't really care what he does or he doesn't, so he's really free here (free, that is, not taking into account those hideous fishing trips his uncle likes so much. But it's a little thing, really)… and… well, other than the sheer beauty of the fjords and the ocean, that's his real motivation from always returning to Bergen. Freedom. From life, work, and mostly, from himself and his stupid prejudices and stoicism. Here, all he has to worry about is nature and inspiration, always so glorious waiting for him, in the stone-tiled pathways or the dark forests that gracefully defy the waves by the cliffs.

The reason he is sitting alone on the deck is, that most of the townfolk are celebrating the Equinox with dancing and songs and mead; and he's too aloof to ever enjoy that sort of thing. He wishes he did, sometimes, but he just can't. Maybe if he knew someone…? Not even, because he knows _himself_ already and too well, and he's _that_ kind of antisocial.

He stares at the water, that sways and waves against the wooden deck vigorously, and he finds himself wishing he could see his reflection there.

"Yo there," a thick voice greets, breaking the silence.

Although it doesn't show on his perpetually emotionless face, Norge is startled, and he looks from side to side to try to see who talks to him. But the place is empty and the wind blows chilly, and he's alone as ever. He sighs. Hearing things, already?

"Yo, ya over there!" The voice again. Thick, lively; "Over here… _down_ here."

Norge looks down, as instructed, and his eyes widen ever so slightly. The face of a pretty young woman looks back at him from amid the waves, grins at him.

"Yo," she repeats.

As it always goes, all his signs of acknowledgement consist of a stare. Of disbelief. The hell is the woman in the water for, it's the first days of autumn…!

She beams at him. _Insistently_.

"It's a nice day, huh?" In the water _and_ making small talk. Norge frowns ever so slightly.

She amicably tilts her head and dives into the water, and he follows her every move (of course), and a vermillion scaly tale flickers in and out of the water in some opportunity. His eyes widen, this time, for real, and once she quiets herself to look at him just… _teasingly _like that, he feels he must come up with a rude remark to hide how very much _bewildered_ he is.

"What's with the terrible accent?"… does the trick.

"Geez man what's with your terrible _attitude_…!" she complains, "and terrible general culture! Come _on_!"

Norge stares at her blankly, unamused.

"It's _Danish,_" she finally explains, reluctantly, between her teeth, "Darn, man, _everyone_ knows mermaids are Danish!"

"…If you say so." Somehow, the fact that he is talking to a mythical creature doesn't offbalance Norge as it would anyone else. That she is unnaturally drop-dead-sexily gorgeous doesn't either. But one thing one he has to give to the perky mermaid, and that is that she's piqued his curiosity.

Although it obviously doesn't show.

She is beaming at him her most dazzling smile. If she'd been human, it would've been a sincere, carefree smile- but being what she is, the young man guesses he could never be completely sure.

"Look… I'm here, you're here, let's be friends!" she offers.

"…" Is all she gets as a reply.

"I'm Mathias! What's your name…?" She tries again, poking his pantleg.

Norge contemplates her with condescendence. "That's a man's name," he states, trying not to be judgmental, and, of course, failing.

She dismisses the comment with a laugh. "That's a silly human for you," and she dives into the water and comes out again, all soaked all over again. "We take up the name of the first man we kill. Of course."

She is delighted to find her light-hearted comment has not failed to cause an impression on the impassive (and terrifically handsome, if she can point out the obvious,) young man.

"…kill."

"Yup," she says conversationally, "as in, eat. You know, when you're hungry? Sailors are the tastiest… _You_ wouldn't happen to be a sailor, right?"

Despite himself, Norge shudders, and all he can find in him is to shake his head slowly.

"Yeah, well, I'd already guessed you weren't, anyway," she says, eyeing him in a fashion that anyone who'd not known her eating habits would, still, thoroughly appreciate. "Not that your build gave you away, you just don't have the hands."

…Hands? Norge can't but look at his hands- pale, slender, of course not a sailor's hands. Well. Now he isn't entirely sure he feels as proud of his good figure as he's been all his life. _Secretly_ proud, mind you.

Next thing he knows, she's pushed herself up from the dancing waters onto the deck with a notorious inverted splash, and he's half soaked and annoyed and (surprised), and when she amicably places a hand on his shoulder; what little's left dry of him becomes wet as well.

"Do you mind?" he asks, and he doesn't really care that he's being obnoxious to a creature that shouldn't exist, it's just how he is.

"You know," she says conversationally, and one would say they're at a bar or something, and not alone on a wooden pier of sorts in a desolate Nordic setting, "You're too stuck up for a cute human, but I like you, what's your name again?"

He sighs. He won't admit defeat, but man, this mermaid is _dense_.

"I never told you."

"Aw," she says, "Come _on_." When all that answers her is the chilly breeze coming from the fjord, she shakes her head and informs, "Whatever, I'll just make up a name for you. You look like your name should beeee…" and she looks at him intensely, evidently trying to put a name to his face as he fights against an inconvenient (and terribly slight) blush that's threatening to result from her stare.

"Stop doing that," he quietly requests, but she ignores him.

"Yeah, I think you look like you could be Lukas. I met a mermaid once called like that, you know, Lukas. She was kind of a stick in the mud… _sober_."

Norge can't say he saw anything she just said _coming_. And it somehow feels derisive to be pet-named like a mermaid (and he is starting to seriously doubt the masculinity of male human names…) So, of course, he feels compelled to ask:

"… you can _drink…_?"

"'COURSE we can!" she says merrily, slapping his back, which in turns makes a slippery sound and makes him shudder, "Best thing your species ever invented, I tell you. Booze. Oh, yeah." He figures she shouldn't look that dreamy-eyed when talking about alcohol, but, honestly, what does he know about mermaids?

…

He's not going to even _try_ to answer that. The part of his mind that's not accepted this as something utterly natural is telling him not to bother.

"Look, Lukas, you don't s'ppose you could kiss me, right?"

The question takes him aback even more than everything else she said. "I… _what_?" Too crazy a request to even allow him a clear, concise, _blunt and not-nice_ reply.

"Yeah, it's kinds of sucky, but you see," she runs her hand through her short, wild blonde hair, that has begun to spike in all possible directions as it dries, "If your lot kisses us we can become human. And I want to go to that festival over there, so… do me the favor?"

As her voice fades, the sounds of merry folksongs invade the silence between the rolling of the waves below. Norge reckons he's not been this confused and/or embarrassed for a long, long while.

Luckily for him, perhaps, this oddly-named Mathias mermaid takes matters into her own hands, because she firmly clutches the flaps of his jacket and pulls him in- into the most wonderful (and heavily magic-infused) kiss.

Trying to deal with himself and his skewered sense of pride in the aftermath, he hardly cares when he hears her exclaim,

"YES! Now I'm so gonna go to that fest and get SO DAMN WASTED it's gonna be plain EPIC!"

And Norge doesn't even have _time_ to feel his world go black.

As she stands on long human legs, Mathias chuckles in amusement at the sight of the handsome young man lying there on the deck, unconscious. He'll be raging when he wakes up, in a couple of hours. But, a greater good usually requires a sacrifice, huh? She steals his clothes, of course, and even if his pants don't fit her too well, everyone's gonna be so drunk no one will really notice.

She beams in anticipation, and, sparing Norge a (sort of) sympathetic look, she happily skips towards the town in a crooked tie and a striped shirt.

* * *

**A/N:** CRACK IS GOOD, and this is probably the crackiest I've ever written. But honestly. If Norway and Denmark were to have a straight relationship, I SO don't see it working with a Fem!Norway. Noooooooope!

Also, the idea of mermaids taking the name of the first man they eat isn't mine. I read it in a *hilarious* and *super advisable* POTC fic where Syrena's real name was Theodore

:)

Also, reviewing is nice and prevents you from becoming one with Russia. Ergo, it's a rather important thing to do :P

**Edit**: fixed some typos. Also, I'm working on a second chapter. In fact, I'm half-done. So be on the lookout ;)


	2. his striped shirt

W'rning: m'ntions 'f pag'nism.

* * *

Norge wakes up several hours later, cold because he's been stripped down to his underwear. It's very dark, and the lights of the large bonfires, coming from the glade where the equinox celebrations are taking place, burn so high he can see them from the waterside. He hears the merry people and folksongs from afar.

He groans, sitting up, because he's cold and his head throbs and his lips sting where the damned mermaid kissed him unconscious.

_You don't s'ppose you could kiss me, right?_

Damn her damn her damn her.

_Lukas_

Damn her, DAMN. He's not been THIS angry since… since forever, and he's actually scowling and he looks ominous and intimidating, or he would if there was anyone there to see him, but they're all singing in the beautiful glade, and dancing, and drinking,

and celebrating, and not only he's not, but also he's about to catch some seaside cold all because of a cursed (but beautiful) mermaid and… Something in his mind tells him it might be his fault for being so antisocial. If he'd been in the festival she would not have found him, right?

He chooses not to think about that, as he stands up shivering and tries to figure out what to do next as he runs to some place where he is sheltered from the wind.

It's dark save for the yellow streetlights that line the stone-tiled waterfront.

He takes cover in a narrow alleyway that winds up the mountain slightly and towards the rows of houses that overlook the fjord, and he frowns, if he walked up that street he would soon reach the glade.

He would. He chuckles in a sinister way, and thankfully, there is no one around to hear him, only the scrambling seagulls by the docks, the silvery fish underwater.

Norge realizes he would usually reason through the situation, just as he realizes he doesn't _want_ to reason in this particular predicament. He only wants to hunt that damnable mermaid, a woman now, and rightfully choke her with *his* tie. Which is red, by the way, and it's a lovely tie, however much people don't seem to agree with him.

It's cold, confound it, cold and windy as he walks up the slope towards the festival. It's taken place in that very same glade since time immemorial, and a great carved stone sits in the middle of it, probably a relic from Viking times, or older. The local people believe it to be magical (but everything is magical there, and now, Norge knows it is even true), and they sing and circle it and decorate it with flowers and offerings, and light bonfires around it, and celebrate the coming of the following season.

Despite the beauty, Norge feels in his foulest of moods. Despite the fragrant smell of pinewood and early dew, of mead and gingerbread and roasted boar, despite the traditional attires and folksongs. When he comes to the edge of the grassy clearing, he is an obscure silhouette against the foggy marine landscape below by the sea; tall, silent, lean and almost naked.

Therefore, no one pays much attention to him. And no one would be honestly judging him that particular night either, because he isn't the only one in that state of undress; no one cares, it's all about alcohol and joy and tradition, and he does go unnoticed.

Shivering and irritated, his eyes scan the jolly multitude for an untame mane of blonde hair and a striped shirt. He walks around a bit. Someone pushes a wooden cup of mead into his hand; he sips from it, absentminded.

He doesn't see her, he is dragged into a dance by an unfamiliar face, then returns to his search. His eyes fall on her, eventually, though.

By the sacred primeval stone, a huge mug of beer in one hand, goofy-tipsy smile, she sways to the lively music of fiddles, making small talk with a dozen youthful men. Norge feels anger rise in his chest, for seeing her flirt so openly wearing _his_ clothes, having made a fool of him like that.

He comes up to her with stealth, ripping her away from a man that looked much like his barbaric ancestors. He scowls at her.

"Hej hej, Norge!" a someone behind him calls, but Norge is beyond the point where he gives a damn about this situation he's in. He doesn't reply.

"Norge!" A hand falls on his shoulder, honest, friendly, "Don'tja snuggle her all to yourself, man! She's got _spunk_….!"

(he's rather disgusted…) "I've business here," he dismisses, and the man retreats muttering how he is _no fun_.

When he turns, Matthias (flushed. In the light of the bonfires, she looks absolutely delightful and unearthly) grins, she is grinning broadly at him, broadly, smugly.

"Hello again!"

He glares a deathwish at her, grabbing her arms and yanking slightly her frame towards him,

"Listen, you-" he begins, but she brushes him off with a terribly ill-intended question,

"Trying to get in my pants, _Norge_?"

He loses the calm he never actually had. "Those are _MY_ pants, you idiot," he says under his breath, trying to overpower the shame that comes from knowing he's blushing, actually _blushing_.

The Dane grins a goofy, sloppy, drunken smile. "We can share-" Norge isn't exactly sure what she _means_ by that, but her actions make her words clear immediately, and suddenly, suddenly a traitorous emotion wells up in the young man's chest and he just… he just _hates_ himself for being… himself.

"Wait," he says, steady and defeated, "Button that back up, you idiot." She looks at him from where she's busied herself fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, puzzled.

"You're a moody one, eh Norge?" she says amused, obviously oblivious to the other men around, who began to flock towards the two of them when they sensed what was about to happen. She, however, doesn't proceed to further unbutton the shirt. She does not button it up either.

"…" Norge doesn't grace her with an answer, only stares at her, unfathomably.

She giggles. "Okay, take two," and easily lets his pants fall to the dewy grass below. Norge figures he can spare her a scandalized look.

"The hell, woman-?"

"Relaaaax, Norge," she chides, and picks up his item of clothing. "There you go. Moody and indecent, geez," she mumbles, and the young man isn't sure now if she's drunk or he'd just forgotten how damned _nonsensical and downright idiotic_ Matthias is. Reluctantly, and not without some degree of self-consciousness, he puts his pants back on. He can't say he isn't glad to, though, and she does nothing to hide she's ogling him. His shirt is rather long, actually, and reaches about her mid-thighs, so, well, though his chivalry isn't pleased, it's appeased, but he's scowling.

"Don't they look better on you," she comments in *that* tone of voice Norge just doesn't want to dwell in, and she adds, "They didn't fit this spectacular body anyway, too narrow."

Yes, he must admit it. He's never blushed this much, or generally displayed this much emotion in….

… in, probably, his entire life.

And, to make matters exponentially, infinitely _worse_, half the population of Bergen, that had been watching the exchange in sheer tipsy amusement, roars with laughter.

* * *

**A/N:**

Well, after conversing with _FlyingMintBunnies_, I realized I couldn't just LEAVE the story there. It had potential for more violence, gore, and, knowing Denmark and Norway, that could only lead to fluff, right? Cause they're warped like that :) Also, I quote myself: "I kind of can't leave the story here, not without exploiting the idea of an angry!Norway storming into a fest full of drunkard nordics in his underwear alone :)"

…

Also.

I guess now I'll have to write a third chapter?

Send me some ideas, _please_. This is me here, begging on my knees :S

…

(Insightful reviews that make me think work just as fine, too)

**EDIT: Fiiiixed the typos!**


	3. her hat

Look o't: dr'nk'nness and c'ffee ov'rd'se. Y' b' w'rned.

* * *

Norge sits on a low tree stump, in the edge of the clearing, catching the last of the warmth that radiates from the bonfires before it becomes forest air. The night is pitch dark, black like the mane of the mythical wolf Fenrir, and it lurks behind the first orange-tinted row of trees. The forest is truly ominous, it has a life and a presence of its own, and somehow, Norge is at unease in giving his back to the silent woods.

But his attention is, much to his utter chagrin, caught by a certain someone that is probably just as magic as the creatures that live in the forests.

That damnable woman…

Yet, yet he can't seem to _stop looking _at her… then again, it could be because she is drunk beyond human capacity (and that's probably how she keeps standing, yes, she's not human), dancing and coming and going even when all there is left of the large equinoxial bonfires are brattling embers. Only the sturdiest townfolk are still on foot, and the rest lie on the sweet soft grass, those who their wives or friends or brothers did not carry away to a warm bed after a healthy string of curses.

But Norge, Norge is still sober and glum, and, darkened in the first hours of pre-dawn, he looks at her and sighs. He still has his hands around the empty cup of mead someone offered him (what feels like) _centuries_ ago, and he never went for a refill, although he did think of it at times. Now it is just too late to think of that because there is no more mead and no one refilling cups, and the aftermath of the festival is as desolate as he remembers. From back then, in those times he actually came waiting for some seasonal magic to happen. It never happened. Is it somehow happening now? If it is, he is not entirely sure he is contented.

The sun will not rise for another hour or more, even if it would have in other latitudes. The days are becoming longer.

Norge has stayed the night awake. It is his consolation that it was a beautiful, beautiful night.

He questions his sanity.

He also (severely) questions his sanity later when he stands up and approaches the woman, who, tall as she is, has at one point or another collapsed onto a pile of empty bottles.

Pityful.

He wonders how it is that his chivalry is getting the best of him when he knows for a fact the woman is as much of a helpless thing as he is (not); and, mortified with his role of Prince accursed Charming, he lifts her up from the ground best he can (even if he is tall and broad, that mermaid is sure a terrible fit in his arms), and begins going down to slope, down towards the village.

**x X x**

* * *

"Aeh?"

It is a very, very undignified noise. Norge massages the bridge of his nose, thinking, _gods, give me patience_. Mathias walks into the living room looking rather less-worse-off than any mortal woman would, after such a night but her hair is still disheveled and her (his!) shirt makes a rather painful sight.

"You were drunk, okay? Dead drunk. Passed out on a pile of-"

"Oh, Lukas!" she exclaims, coming up to him rather fast. Shouldn't she be the one with the headache? Norge wonders silently.

"I'm not _Lukas_…" he mumbles.

"…. right, anyway, what am I doing here? Geez, last night's a _blur_," she complains, falling onto the sofa next to a very (already) pissed young man who only meant to drink his coffee in peace. He calmly sets the smoking mug on the low wooden table in front of the sofa.

"Didn't I just _tell you,_" he says under his breath, "_You_ were dead drunk and passed out on a pile of bottles."

"Oh, that _sucks,_ man," she says, spectacularly (and, for Norge, thankfully) omitting the part in which she woke up in Norge's house. Well, actually, Norge's _uncle's_ house. But he's away fishing so… Well, anyway.

"Yeah, I imagine. Now get going."

Stoic as ever, the young man doesn't honestly see how kicking her out as soon as she wakes up can be any affront to his very honored chivalry. He was nice, but it's not that late in the morning, he has not slept at all, and his head wants to _kill_ him. Again, why isn't she the one with the headache?

"Ya ain't kicking me out just like that, eh, Lukas?"

Boy was he *again* annoyed. "Yes, I am," he replies smoothly, "And my name's Norge."

"Hadn't we been over that before, anyway? It's kinda blurred," she begins, trying to recall her fuzzy previous night, and Norge really wishes she doesn't. "I liked 'Lukas' a lot…" she deadpans.

Norge sighs. Right. He's lost the battle. _Uansett._

"You're not gonna let me go without sharing some of your awesome-smelling human stuff over there, right?" she asks, hopefully pointing towards Norge's cup of coffee.

"Follow me," he says, almost gritting his teeth, and walks into the kitchen.

**x X x**

* * *

It's Norge's fourth cup of coffee this morning.

And that's saying something.

It's Mathias' _sixth_ cup of coffee this morning.

And _that's_ saying something else.

"Man this stuff is delicious!" she declares, beaming at Norge, who is somehow unexplainably disarmed in seeing her so excited over something as trivial as coffee.

"It's gonna hack off all your braincells, if you ever had any," the young man comments, leaning coolly against the counter, thankful that the coffee pot has finally become empty.

The Dane snickers, evidently not paying him attention, and she busies herself running around the kitchen, inspecting the human lifestyle. Although, seeing her put on some pajama pants he lent her earlier, Norge could easily tell it was not the first time she'd been among humans. Whatever, right?

The young Norwegian sighs. "I think it's time you left, already."

She stops doing… whatever it was she was doing with half her body in the cupboard, and, looking over her shoulder, she announces, "I can't! Geez _man_…"

Norge is stunned. Honestly. It was just the way she said it and how she said it and what did she mean…?

"_What?_" He lets out in disbelief, his mind rushing. _She's not actually implying she'll want to stay around me, right?_

"That," she says simply, shrugging.

His reply is steady, solemn, monotone. "You're not staying here, so you better figure out how to."

She comes up to him, looking very strange wearing his clothes. "It's funny you'd say that, Norge dearest. Y'see, I lost my hat in the clearing. Damn, I was so drunk I never realized till this morning," she laughs under her breath, but Norge, for all that he is expressionless, can easily read a shrill note of uneasiness in her laughter.

"So?"… that doesn't make him any less crude, anyway.

"I can't go back without it," she says, scratching the back of her head, "Guess I'll have to go… look for it. Or something."

Norge falls silent. He understood her halfway, though, but when he looks at her with an evidently puzzled face, what he sees is her blonde hair aiming for the door already, as she waves over her shoulder and calls,

"See ya around, Norge!"

**x X x**

* * *

**A/N: **_(thanks for the lovely comments guys! I love you ;) )_

You know, spinoff of the tale that says that mermaids wore a magical cap/hat that enabled them to go underwater. If they lost it, they couldn't return. Some online version of the Encyclopaedia Britannica says:

_Many folktales record marriages between mermaids (who might assume human form) and men. In most, the man steals the mermaid's cap or belt, her comb or mirror. While the objects are hidden she lives with him; if she finds them she returns at once to the sea […]_

Agree with me on something, guys. If Denmark's hat ain't magical, how the heck does it stay up there on that wild hair of his?

...

Ideas, please? Or just review. Your reviews really make me think, I swear! Actually this chapter wouldn't be if you guys hadn't reviewed :)

**EDIT: I changed the title, now that it became a multi-chapter story it didn't fit. What do you think? It's still subject to change. But please do communicate your opinion to me :)**


	4. what he tells himself

Sh'rt.

* * *

It is very late when the doorbell rings, and Norge is startled out of the realms of fantasy of the novel he is reading.

He's thinking whether to answer or not, when the doorbell rings again... He stands up, alert and in his pajamas, throws on a dark coat, calls out but no one answers. An emergency, perhaps? Obviously, and despite himself, he worries. He hastily finds the key, opening the door in the blink of an eye, only to come nose to nose with...

Oh, gods.

She stands there in the threshold, looking as sheepish as she can, shivering in the pajamas Norge lent her earlier today. The young man rolls his eyes, thinking _what the hell_, but not uttering a noise.

"I can come in, right...?"

He'd very much rather she didn't, but she's shivering and barefoot, and he... just... can't.

"Where've you been rolling?" he asks dully, as if it were just a daily thing, having her come like this, mud-filthy, twigs in her hair, cold, short of bewitching. His eye twitches.

"Here and there," she says with a slight smile, feeling instantly better as she carries a chair near the fireplace. "Couldn't find my hat, though," she adds, eyes ever so slightly so downcast, and Norge urges himself not to feel sympathetic. That is one idiotic creature. Nothing to feel sorry for.

"… and you're here, because…?"

The answer is quite obvious, though, and he _could_ feel slightly flattered that she remembered where his house was enough to come back. But he's seen her drunk, and he's seen her flirt, and he remembers she's not just another woman, so he lets it pass.

She says it easy and matter-of-factly, "Where else would I go?", and he has to turn towards the shadows to hide what he suspects could be a blush, but he won't risk it.

"Go take a shower or something, the gods know you're needing one," he mutters, and even if she looks at him clueless for a while, she eventually makes sense of what he's said, and with this cheerful beam that he considers so misplaced on her face, she springs to her feet and darts inside.

Well, she'll find the bathroom, eventually, so why bother? Norge falls back onto the sofa and picks up his book again.

...

She's dripping over the carefully waxed parquet, and Norge is trying his best not to strangle her and not to horribly give himself away blushing like a teenager; but he is not really succeeding much, but, thankfully, she's being dense and clueless.

The young man doesn't even try to scold her, he just settles for rolling his eyes and exiting the room, after a grumpy mumbled, "I'll get you clothes. Don't do anything stupid."

He vaguely wonders when he'll run out of spare clothes to lend her, by the by, and somehow resents that *his* clothes look better on her. Somehow. And they're the same height, too.

She beams when he shoves yet another pair of pajamas onto her (whatever she was wearing before is now safely stocked in the laundry basket), and he gazes out of the window then, trying to appear unfazed by her familiarity in choosing to change right there by the fireplace. He doesn't care, and he's not looking, and he's certainly not going to like looking if he accidentally does, but he won't. He doesn't care.

At least, that's what he tells himself.

...

* * *

**A/N: **_Short chapter but bear with me. Stuff is going to happen, and it may involve alcohol. _

**Please suggest a crack!support character! I'm leaving it up to you, guys! You choose who'll be making a cameo!**


	5. Uncle Sve

W'rning: You'll actually be able to understand what Sweden says! 'm s'rry f'r th'se wh' l'k' t' s'ff'r... I me'n wh' l'k' t' d'sc'ph'r unswedish silly fandom conventions

(do take no offense!)

* * *

In the middle of the night, when he's shaken awake, a thousand and one excuses for being sleeping on his uncle's bed flash through his mind, but all he does is sigh and sit up, sling his legs over the bedside, take the glare and the silent reproach like a man, and shuffle his feet to the couch.

The next morning he is shaken awake again, and his uncle sits on the coffee table to look at him again and lifts an eyebrow, and Norge feels too nonchalant to feel uncomfortable. They both know that some emotions felt are misplaced, because his uncle knows him too well to suspect him reckless, but then again he could be surprised because Norge is so veiled and private he could _always_ be mistaken; it's only that he thought he'd never be.

And Norge is just too prideful sometimes.

"Be thankful th't I'd not come home with T'na," his uncle simply says in that deep voice of his and lifts an eyebrow, and, between two quiet men, it would be pointless to demand an explanation when one is evidently needed. So Norge clears his throat, finding it strangely hard to choose where to start his story.

… so he just decides that there will not be a story.

"She'll be leaving soon."

His uncle stands up, and Norge fails to see the amusement dancing in his eyes. "Sort it out how you w'nt," he says, not harshly, "But, until you do, you're sleeping on th' couch."

His uncle tries not to chuckle when Norge tries to suppress a groan and fails.

…

However much uncle Sve likes to tease Norge, it is immediately evident he might be reconsidering, because as soon as Matthias steps into the kitchen, gorgeously curvy and worse-for-wear, there is some kind of tension in the air that the young man doesn't too readily like.

"Hej, good morning!" she says merrily, until her eyes set on uncle Sve. "…the heck? Who are you? Jeez, you look like you could use a smile…"

Norge suddenly feels like murder.

His uncle shrugs and sets his smoking mug on the counter, inspecting the unnaturally pretty woman that sort of sways towards his nephew, making the young man look as stoically uncomfortable as Sven never thought he would see him. In a way, it does not entirely displease him enough to make the situation any less amusing (in his head: no trace of actual emotion reaches his scowl). But there is something about the woman that innately causes him mistrust.

"Hej Norge, got some whatwasit? Coffee, right? Got some?" she beams at his nephew, she pokes him when he answers only with a glare, and eventually slings an arm over his shoulders in a way to boyish and too intimate. Norge's cheeks flush and he wriggles out of her grasp.

"You're an idiot," the young man sentences.

"Oh come _ooon_," she drawls, setting once more for poking his arm, "Only one cup? Or two?"

Uncle Sve gathers his mug and goes out of the kitchen, because he feels he will not be able to keep a small smirk from twitching onto his lips if he stays there any longer. He must admit, even if to himself, that there is something rewarding in seeing his permanently collected nephew flustered and annoyed like that. Even if that woman rubs him the wrong way…

"…or three?" her voice pervades the walls, invades the cozy cottage,

"Come on, _Noooorge!_ "

* * *

**A/N:**

Introducing sexysexysexy uncle Sve ;) In my headcanon, his name is Sven Östenstjärna, much sexier and much swedisher (I think, at least lol) XDD.

I've just realized I'm developing a strange Hetalia AUverse. But mermaid!Matthias only works in this crack setting, btb.

...

Thanks to my lovely reviewers, esp. HanaLiatris and Me1anch0lich0lic (you faithful thing you!). Also, , if I'm not mistaken that fic was called "Theodore" LOL... It MUST be in my favorites, anyway, so take a look?

...

Guys... ideas? I'm running low on those :P Anything and everything helps!


	6. advice he doesn't want

N'te: Pr'ssia m'kes a c'meo.

* * *

She's disappeared again.

Norge takes a bath (the gods know he needed it), but when he comes downstairs there is no one to be seen and the house is in blissful silence, but he's learned these past days to be deeply wary of silence. His uncle left early like usual, and the living room is in calm morning order (the sun filters through the bow-window in the living room, and the logs burning in the hearth fill the air with delicious pinewood scent)

but it's not his uncle that concerns him, evidently.

And confound him, but why is he thinking now in terms of "concern"? Granted, Matthias is gone as if she'd never been there, but why does he give a damn?

Walking into the kitchen, Norge knows it should be time for some dreaded introspection. But he shuts his better judgement tight, like a clam, because there is nothing really that deserves his attention that badly there, is it? He is relaxing in Bergen like he does every now and then, when his job allows him, and nothing is really out of the ordinary. Silent days and quiet nights, freedom and long strolls in the forest.

Lonely, blissfully lonely peace.

Nothing out of the ordinary…

… no, he can't do it. Not this time. It's ridiculous that someone as intelligent as Norge should lie to himself so openly.

Sighing, he reaches for the coffee pot, to find it empty.

Obviously.

He struggles with all his might to fight back a derisive little knowing smirk, and tries to keep on his poker face as he settles the kettle on the stove. He didn't even want coffee. Tea will suit him much better.

…

He turns the key in the key-hole, locking the door, and pockets it. The cool morning air, fragrant of wood and newly baked bread, welcomes him like a caress. Some people recognize him already from all the times he's been here, but in waving to him this morning they appear much more friendly, as if there was something in their smiles he'd never seen before.

he shrugs. It must be that it's just his mind being over-reacting to the gods-know-what.

He doesn't know what. He's pretty much sure he doesn't-

_want_ to see what he's seeing right then when he comes into the main square….

A quiet "_what the…_" leaves his lips unexpectedly, as he stands there, his brain not fully processing the image his eyes present him; and he watches there partially dumbfounded (although his face won't show it, never), until a hand clasps his shoulder.

"Stop ogling the chick and talk to her, man."

Norge shudders, glaring at the idiotic presumptuous stranger with an intensity enough to freeze a glacier all over again.

"Honestly," the other man continues in earnest, as if he'd (somehow) not understood the look he was just given, "'cause she's one hot pick, and if you don't, I won't mind to."

A second glance at the pale-haired man's face tells Norge he's seen the guy around. Somewhere. Somewhere pretty forgettable, too.

He _hmmm_s, calmly. "Go ahead, be my guest. Idiocy deserves itself."

The man laughs, an open laugh with too many sibilants to ring normal, and there is something in his _almost_ crimson eyes that make them predatory, but also lively. "Right, man, whatever that means. I'm running late anyway, so enjoy her!" he calls and he's already walking away, waving over his shoulder, and Norge MUST think whether that was all just some kind of twisted joke at his expense.

It might as well be. In the center of the neatly tended square, right by the fountain, two large notices have been set up:

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS HAT? (and the drawing of a tiny hat accompanies the words)

and

GOT A COIN TO SPARE? HELP A DANE BUY LUNCH

… the strangest urge takes over Norge, to come up to that moronic airhead of a mermaid and whack her senseless. But he's a gentleman. He _should be a gentleman…_ she makes it bloody hard to keep conscience and intelligence both appeased. His brain tells him there is only so much idiocy it can take on a weekly, scratch that, monthly basis.

And that damnable Matthias sure did away with his quota the second they met.

"Oh, NORGE!" a voice calls out.

A damned familiar voice.

_Oh, great_, the young man thinks with displeasure, _now people will think I'm involved in… this._

When he doesn't answer or walk closer to her (he fails to notice he's not walked away either), she comes up to him, beaming.

"What are you doing here? Nice day, huh?"

(silence)

"You won't believe all the money I made this morning! The people here are kickass, you know that?"

Norge mentally beats himself. "You're making a fool of yourself," he states evenly.

"…so much money I can actually treat you to lunch! So what do you say?"

The young man doesn't even try not to sound derisive and biting. "I fail to see how _anyone_ would give _you_ anything…"

… but, again, Matthias is dearly oblivious to such subtleties. "What can I say, I sell my products well…"

"And which, may I know, are those products…?"… she also fails to catch the mordant lilt in Norge's voice as he asks her that.

She just laughs, cheerfully. "I'll tell you when I think that far. Lunch?"

* * *

**A/N: In which Prussia gives Norway dating advice... sort of... which Norway absolutely disregards.**

**BTW, Prussi appears again later. I promise.**

**I love to hear from you guys :) Ideas? Suggestions? Typos to fix? **

**How will He and She finally hit it off? Craziest idea wins!**


	7. Enlighten Me

H'llo. Th's takes pl'ce in a r'staur'nt.

* * *

He is not one to be intimidated, but the look Matthias gives him when he is about to order is so… he'll call it unexpected… that he suddenly seems to change his mind and tell the waiter he'll have… "A sandwich." Pause. "Vegetarian, please." Just in case. Whatever.

Once the (deeply confused) young waiter leaves, Norge glares at the woman across the table.

"Is there anything improper about eating salmon? Enlighten me."

Norge didn't know Matthias had the actual capacity to be smooth, but he is being caught by surprise many times today, it seems, when she replies (smoothly!) "Not really unless you mind me eating a George… or a Lukas… while you do."

The young man shudders.

She smirks, "Thought so."

…

Later, as he watches her happily devour a half-raw steak across the table, he contemplates his sandwich with a frown before deciding he might just not be very hungry today.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Short but sweet, guys, short but sweet.**

**Longer stuff is coming, it's already written in fact ;)**

**Credit goes to my sister for suggesting mermaids shouldn't eat fish. That's clever, btw xD What do you guys think?**

**There is nothing deeply historical about the relationships between characters in this story, btw. It's just pure, healthy AU =D**


	8. he's not drunk

H's n't dr'nk.

* * *

The water laps tamely at the walls of the promenade of stone, and they walk together in silence for a while, until she asks him something.

"Bryggen," he replies evenly- that's the name of the harbor that hugs the waves, right where he found her that evening that feels like a lifetime ago. The place is the very same as they amble together, only that Norge feels he is slowly ceasing to be the same Norge that woke up cold and naked the night of the equinox. He can't truly say he knows why.

She looks at the water with longing, thinking she can get away with Norge not noticing the true nature of the glint in her eyes.

"I'm tired of the land," she announces, "It's dull. I'm going back."

"I thought you were a hat short for that," he says bitingly, but she doesn't make anything out of his voice. It's becoming usual. He doesn't really know why he bothers being sarcastic, when she never catches on.

"Yeah, it doesn't mean I can't try though. Maybe the legend isn't true at all," she adds with hope, as an afterthought.

He scoffs. "Freeze to death, be my guest."

She turns round to look at him, wildly, and he swallows something bitter. Her eyes search his face, desperately trying to tell what exactly he meant by that, not sure if she should feel hurt, or offended, or affronted, or all that together, and her eyebrows hunch together and she eventually chooses to scowl.

He never honestly meant to make her angry.

Well, he never thought she could get angry.

Actually, now that he thinks about it, he's almost sure he doesn't _want_ her to be angry… at him… even if his better (ice-cold) judgement tells him she can go to hell for all he cares, and all that shows on his stoic face is the leftovers of his scorn.

He's not meant to offend her, but he's not apologizing either.

Her eyes narrow for a brief second, and her glare makes Norge's mouth taste bitter, and she wordlessly spins round and walks away.

And Norge, icy, stone-faced old Norge, feels, for probably the first time in his life, like the world's greatest idiot.

Alone, he wanders around until it becomes dark.

.

.

"Hey there, how's this awesome night treating you?"

"Shut up and give me something strong"

The barman eyes him quizzically, taking in his new customer, and offers an (unwanted) verdict in the form of a question.

"Lovers' quarrels?"

Norge looks at him, expressionless.

"I'll go get my alcohol elsewhere," he states dully, and begins to walk away.

"Hey wait, yo!" the barman calls, feigning concern, but Norge gives him a second chance . He seems vaguely familiar, thinks Norge, as he takes a seat on a high stool and indeed orders something strong (preferably sweet, too.) The guy is tall, lean, anywhere between his teens and his late thirties (the kind of people that don't age), and fervently repeats the chorus for some underground German band, with a voice too much too raspy, while he mixes colorful alcoholic components.

Norge is trying to think, but it grates on his nerves immensely that the guy has been singing that blasted same word for at least two minutes.

The barman eventually notices he is being death-glared at, and, a small smirk spreading on his lips like a disease, addresses the young, scowling man.

"What's up, man?" he asks, his actual voice not too different from his raspy, scratchy singing.

"Sing lower," Norge rudely replies, but the barman takes no offence.

"Psht, it's the most awesome song ever," he comments, adds the final touches to his conconction and passes it over to Norge. "Hope it's strong enough, you need it, bro." Again, he skillfully ignores a death-glare, "it's called _Einsamkeit_, you know. German, you see? It means loneliness. Which is absolutely your situation. Which is why you totally need to drink _that_" (he gestures towards the drink he's just stirred up) "before you drill a hole into my skull with your unawesome glaring."

Norge can't but deadpan as he tests the drink on his lips. He has to give it to the goddamned annoying man there, it is just what he needs. Not that he'd ever, _ever_ confess it.

The dancing disco lights are giving him a headache already, and when the color scheme suddenly shifts, Norge catches a glimpse of the real colors of the place there, and the barman's hair shines silver for two seconds.

Oh, right. He knows where he knows the guy from.

The barman must have also had some sort of recognition-epiphany, because his eyes widen in mischief and he smirks at him.

"Oh, it's _you_… How did it go with the hot chick in the square?"

Norge knows he must glare at the man and stay silent. So he does.

So the guy (German, if the accent and the song give him away correctly) assumes things, like anyone would do when presented with such a scenario, and smiles and shakes his head.

"SO, you fucked up. So drink it away and try again tomorrow," he offers in his scratchy voice (Norge is glowering at him but he is oblivious), "Chicks dig that," he chit-chatters, he offers yet another piece of man-to-man advice that Norge fails to hear with practiced ease.

Next thing the young, stoic man knows, is that there is one generous jug of beer right before him.

"On the house," the barman says with a grin and a shrug, "One, because I'm that awesome, and two, because damn you need it like hell."

Norge shrugs back and takes a long drag.

.

It becomes late when, later, a hand clasps on his shoulder- the hand of a stranger that evidently lacks basic European interaction etiquette.

Norge has been spacing off for quite a while now, but through his glare he realizes they must have been talking about/to him at one point or another, because both the silver haired barman and the tanned foreigner this side of the bar are giving him expectant looks.

"Drunk yet?" the barman tactlessly asks, and is glared at in response.

As for the tanned foreigner, Norge makes it clear _fast_ that there is a hand on his shoulder that shouldn't be there. The guy withdraws it in friendly gesture and keeps smiling at him with unwanted warmth, but there is also a note of uncertainty in his demeanor now. He is beginning to evidently doubt whatever the barman told him, and he asks,

"Are you sure he doesn't mind?"

The barman cackles. Norge is in the dark as to what they were talking about that concerned him, so he just assumes he won't like to know and keeps glaring in a rather vacant-threatening way.

"Who cares, Tony, he still needed my awesome help."

'Tony' looks quizzically at the brash barman, who is suddenly distracted with a customer and has to go inside in search for some bottle. With him out of sight, the tanned man turns to Norge with a friendly smile renewed, but a glint of mischief dances in his eyes.

"So… You go to Gilbert for love advice? Seriously, now. You must be reeeeeeeeeeeeally desperate."  
Norge doesn't answer, and chooses to focus on how oddly clearly he pronounces the vowels.

"... you're not actually putting his nonesense into practice..." Tony asks, now appearing almost scared to go on, "... are you?"  
Suddenly Norge is feeling distinctly unawesome.  
Honestly.  
Unawesome.

_Why am I listening to this crap_, Norge wonders, and the situation downs on him. He is sitting in a high stool in a bar, who knows what time in the night it is and he has drunk something colorful (and sweet and strong) and a damn gigantic jug of beer (at least), he is being lectured by a godforsaken barman and his touchy-feely hispanic friend, all the while treated as if he had issues in a love life he _doesn't fucking have_.

_Seriously, what am I doing here?_

He will do something wise, he thinks. He's still on time to make it.

He'll stand up and leave, wordlessly, and damn them deep if they think he's being rude.

And so he does.

.

…

…he ends up alone with a killing headache in his uncle's cozy house, having a miserable instant soup for dinner (peachy), miserable, with the stomach full of beer but still, unfortunately, grimly

sober.

The sound of the front door slamming slaughters the silence into uncomfortable stillness. Sloppy footsteps towards the kitchen tell Norge he is about to stop being alone, and his headache trebles, and the remains of the soup in the mug become distinctly insipid. He tells himself it is because he is tired and feeling unfabulous. Or whatever of the sort that less apathetic people feel in these cases, whatever, because he knows damn too well to his liking who walks like that, who makes those noises, but damn him. He isn't expecting anything, he reasons, he's just had a rough day. Nothing else.

She comes slouching into the room, barely shivering (it's polar outside) and looking at him like a wet dog. And wet she is for real, and she drips all over the floor.

"You're ruining the parquet," he states.

… her reaction is off, he notices, and all she does is quietly avert her eyes.

"I can't find it. I can't go back."

There is a puddle under her, already, a salt water puddle.

And Norge is nervous. He'll never admit it even to himself, but he's been nervous since he saw her walk away that afternoon. Since he heard the door open some seconds ago. He wishes he knew why.  
He, or rather, a little voice inside him, wishes he knew what to say in this moment. He looks at her.

_It's your fault for being reckless._  
_Suits you, you thick-headed moron._

He knows he can't be gentle with his words. She has that effect over him, and it is strange, seeing her so silent under the threshold begin to halfheartedly move towards a drawer and get an old towel (funny she knew her way around the place so well), eyes downcast, and mop the floor.  
Annoyed by her sullenness and the dreadful situation, he forces himself to break the silence.

"You're an idiot."

She shrugs, wallowing in what Norge thinks is self pity.

"At least I know you'll always be honest with me, Norge," she says, locking eyes with him, and there is some strange hurt resignation there that the young man finds offending (at least), but he cannot wholeheartedly blame her. He's never showed her anything that is not sheer disinterest and coldness, and he of all people shouldn't be surprised.  
But damn it sucks to see her disheartened like that, and a slight frown clouds his brow.

"You were in the sea," he states.

Yes, she answers. Take a bath, he says. Yeah, whatever, she breathes. Dropping the soggy old rag, she begins to walk to the bathroom.

"Wait, you great idiot."

She doesn't go far.

"Wha'?"

He looks away and awkwardly opens his arms.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Cliffie! Don't hate me because I love you :)**

**I was going to wait more to post this, but damn it, I love this chapter. How the fuck did Spain wriggle his way into the story, I'll never know. (anything with Gilbert in is is dedicated to you, sis xD)**

**Gilbert and Antonio have divination powers (?)**

**And if you take into account that (this is one day split into chapters 5 and 6 and this one) Norge only ate breakfast, half a sandwich, a hell lotta alcohol and didn't finish a bowl of soup… I'm thinking we might be dealing with some eating disorders here xD**

**Send me Ideas or Love, either will do, but together they'll do better ;)**


	9. nights and moods, and mornings

th't s'me n'ght...

* * *

He hears the water run in the pipes more than he would like to while he waits for the kettle to boil (he's not keen on microwaves), and hums (he never hums) and tries to get distracted with the fogging window panes.

Uncle Sve is away fishing with his girlfriend and thankfully, too, because it's dreadful already even if it's only him and her upstairs taking a bath, or maybe it's dreadful exactly because of that, of it being only him and her and no Uncle Sve to keep it lovingly formal and sort of tense and uncomplicated and-

_There I go again_, Norge groans mentally, _Just boil, damn it._ And now he's mentally talking to his kettle, way to go.

_Uncomplicated?_

It's complicated.

He hugged her, so what? He shrugged then, when she let go, it was awkward. She'd gotten him all wet because she'd been soaking, and soon as he'd heard her climb up the wooden stairs to the bathroom he'd scurried to the fireplace to get warm. And it was really ironic, but she'd been warm, and he was shivering.

Then he decided he'd make tea, good red tea with honey and cinnamon and ginger (he still had some left, he knew), and linden he'd gathered last year himself, and he'd finish warming up. He is feeling really cold.

Inside.

But he is okay with always being reluctant. He's always been like this. He knows no different, and he doesn't care to know different either.

The house is silent and she eventually comes downstairs, in a warm bathing robe she must have smuggled from Uncle Sve's room (sometimes she knows too much about the human world for his liking), and it wells up inside him.

He hates it that she looks so damn _defeated_. And, it's curious, but for all that she annoys him to extents incomprehensible, he can't stand to see her like this either.

"That's not coffee, is it?" she asks, peering into his cup, invading his personal space enough to remind him he's held her in his arms once, not in a too distant past. It's unsettling.

"…" he answers her with a quick annoyed glare and she sighs, he groans inwardly, and prepares a cup for her too. It's still warm.

"It'll do you good," he mutters, leaving the cup on the counter for her to take it. She holds it in her hands, she is still close and he can smell Uncle Sve's scent on her from the robe, and it's weird and he hopes he'll never have to smell such a thing again.

She's, oddly enough, suddenly beaming at him, the sneaky little moodswinging thing. "Aww, so you care about me deep down there, eh Norge?"

He shrugs, bothered. "Think what you want."

"Aaaaw!" she goes, slightly squealing and grating on Norge's nerves, she proceeds to set the cup on the counter and glomp him. Just like that.

A furious blush spreads over his cheeks like a virus as she cuddles her nose against his taut neck, the contact lasts for as long as he's too stunned to react. Her scent mixed with Uncle Sve's scent from the robe floods him rather violently, and he soon finds himself pushing her away.

"I never gave you carte blanche to harass me," he says under his breath with irritation. Sheepishly, she looks at him and smiles tamely. Or as tamely as she can manage.

"I can't help liking you, Norge," she tells him, and he only looks at her with a seemingly bored expression, that masks masterfully the inner turmoil her words cause inside him. He can't answer her, and so, he doesn't.

"… you're incredible fun to annoy, too," she adds, matter-of-factly while she picks up her cup of tea and takes a sip, looking at him mischievously over the rim of the cup.

"… and you look damn cute when you're embarrassed."

.

.

The next morning when he wakes up on the couch (he's not sore because he's getting used to sleeping there, sadly enough), it feels only natural for the air to smell like coffee, and like something else, like something he's never smelled before in that place (though it still feels like it belongs there), like something that…

… that makes his stomach grumble, reminding him that he's underslept, underfed, and he terribly _needs_ to take a bath because he damn sure smells like he's gone clubbing (and how didn't he notice it yesterday anyway?); his clothing impregnated with the terrible stench of rancid cigarette smoke. If he's gotten _that_ on the couch, a certain Swedish relative of his will kick him out for good, him, his Byronesque existence and the loud mermaid-slash-woman-slash-tormentor of his soul.

He awkwardly gets up, stretches in silence, and bends to smell the couch.

Wholeheartedly hoping no one sees him doing that.

And, good, it seems he's going to have a roof over his head for a while longer. He'd go to the kitchen to do justice to the godly scents that emanate from there, but he can't live with himself until he stops smelling as if he'd had fun; and so upstairs he goes.

.

It's not the scent alone that draws him to the kitchen this time, no, it's also that bewitching singing-

She stops when she sees him looking at her from the door with eyes slightly lost, she grins,

"Oh, g'morning Norge! Did you sleep well?" Knowing she'll get no answer, she continues amicably, "Sorry about the singing, I try not to do it, you know, it puts your folk in a funny state like that, but it slips sometimes, hehe, you know?"

She looks slightly apologetic, yes. Norge, lingering in the after-effects of her beautiful (magical) voice, takes a moment too long to eventually snap out of it, shaking his head eventually as if he wanted to get rid of the remnants of her song.

"Don't do that again," he short of hisses, but this time his (anger?) at her is short-lived, because she ushers him to the dark-wood kitchen table, where a tempting mug of coffee and home-baked pastries are lovingly waiting for him.

He arches his brows, he really needn't speak.

"I thought you'd like it," she says simply, taking a seat after he does (she's wearing those pajamas from the other time, and it could even be kind of endearing),

"It's good," he deadpans, sipping the best coffee he's had since he arrived in Bergen this season, "… you're still an idiot."

She fidgets, uneasy, nervous smile playing in her lips, "You know," she starts, "I'd… to thank you, eh… And like a peace offering. For yesterday?"

It seems to him like she's apologizing, but he's got this horrible uneasiness that it shouldn't be _her_ the one to apologize. He's unable to voice that, so he opts for a tangent:

"Why can you cook?"

At he can be thankful she's scatter-brained like that, because it works in that she grins her usual carefree/proud/open grin and says, "'Cause it's not the first time I lose my hat, _duuh_."

Norge slowly sets his cup on the table, takes a moment to collect his thoughts, and looks at her with the blankest look he can manage.

It's either that, or he's strangling her right on spot.

* * *

**A/N:**

Oh, this chapter is a personal favorite, guys.

I like Norway so much xD He's got a heart of gold under all those violent impulses, I swear xD

**Dears DKONE, liss, abiirose, Me1anch0lich0lic** and all other awesome ppls who've reviewed me: I hug you tightly and thank you for your support. I know I'm terrible at replying to reviews, but hopefully I make up for it with updating as soon as I can...?

**Question!**

**About Iceland!**

I'm dying, DYING to include him in the story. Problem is I want him to be a kickass character. These are some ideas I had:

- Misanthropic fisherman, lives in a tiny hut.

- Norge's brother, married to Mrs. Puffin.

So... your opinion would mean a lot to me. And other ideas are welcome. And names are welcome too, very very much =D


	10. Eiríkur

In w'ch th're 're n'me issu's.

* * *

Eiríkur is a long-time friend of Norge's.

He is serious and cultivated and the most misanthropic personality that Norge has ever encountered, he himself being the second most misanthropic personality he's ever encountered, and that's saying something.

So when Eiríkur sees Norge coming towards him, winding his way around stones and water puddles, our young man is not surprised to see him glance at him briefly to look back at the impressive waves, not a smile, not the slightest gesture that hints at him being welcome.

Norge likes to think he knows otherwise.

"Good morning, brother," he says when he comes near him, although they are not brothers. But Eiríkur is strange and Norge is strange too.

"Good morning, Nor," a rich, masculine voice answers back. Eiríkur holds his fishing rod steady over the furious waves, and never looks at him too long.

Norge may have smiled, sitting on the flat stone next to his friend, who refuses to call him brother back, and whose age is devastatingly uncertain; and although Eiríkur told him once he's younger than him, Norge can't honestly believe him completely. But he says he does. He teases him he'll always be the younger brother, because he shuns everyone away because he's immature like that.

Eiríkur shrugs at him sometimes, and sometimes he gets mad, and Norge is so fond of him because he's unpredictable and a turbulent soul, deep down there. Norge tends to like people that amuse him with their contradictions. Except Matthias. Or maybe he likes her too, deep down there. Or not. He can't _tell_, damn it, and it unnerves him…

…deep down there.

Or not. Maybe not so deep.

Well, to hell with it.

When Norge comes back to Planet Earth from his inner disquisitions, Eiríkur is actually looking at him, frowning.

"What's come over you today?"

Oh, to tell, or not to tell? _You see, Is, the mermaid that's living with me made me breakfast, and the familiarity of our morning confuses the hell out of me_.

Peachy. It'll work. He'll say it just like that:

"It's nothing. I'm bored."

Perfect. Now Eiríkur, or 'Is' (ice), as his not-quite-brother calls him with his affectionately-sarcastic way of showing he cares, will have no option but to empathize with him.

His friend looks at him, gaze unreadable, for only three seconds more. Then he shrugs and returns to his fishing.

"If you say so," he concedes dully, "Who am I to deny you your right to boredom?"

The sound of the waves breaking against the weatherworn stone of the shore ominously takes over the place for a while.

"I'm so good, I'm even going to allow you to get bored with me," Eiríkur adds. They both crack a ghost of a something that only they understand is a smile.

"While you get bored," his friend goes on after a thoughtful pause, "I'll only ask you why you blushed when I asked you what's come over you."

Norge feels at a loss for words, something that does not happen to him too often, and much less around Eiríkur. He's a sarcastic personality. He doesn't do 'I blanked'.

But he does this time, and his friend smirks a little private smirk that tells plainly, _I know_.

"It's a girl," the fisherman states plainly, a wave roars ominously as it breaks against the rocks, successfully masking Norge's sharp intake of breath and Eiríkur's quiet laugh at his expense.

"Really, now," the young man tells him, "You're such an open book you don't make it any fun."  
Norge groans, he's lost the battle.

"So much for bored, huh?"

Now, Norge's wondering why the heavens he's come. Whatever made him think it was such a great idea? So far all he's gotten is laughed at and no solid advice.

But, wait. Whenever did it turn intelligent to come for love (…love?) advice to a guy that is practically an hermit?

Bright Norge, huh. Bright, desperate Norge in need of some serious sense-knocking-into-his-skull session. But Eiríkur was good for that last thing, at least. Knocking sense into him, I mean.

"She must be a princess," Eiríkur snickers. And so far, Norge hasn't said a word.

"…shut up," he says, questioning the dignity of such an answer. He is distinctly aware he might be blushing, too, but his friend is tactful enough not to look at him while he taunts him.

Eirikur pushes him further down embarrassment lane: "… and what's the lucky soul's name?"

Norge buries his face into his hands. It's going to sound so, so, so terribly wrong…

"Matthias…" he says quietly, rather in-character for all that's been happening since he came to see his friend.

"Can't hear you if you talk to yourself," his friend comments dully, wriggling the fishing rod around as if something's bitten the bait.

Norge inhales deeply. Exhales as calmly as he can.

"Matthias," he repeats, and this time his voice does ring over the sound of the waves.

Eiríkur double-takes him suddenly. "Woah, man…!"

* * *

**A/N**

Yes, Ice, she's a real princess ;)

Sorry for the short update. I couldn't resist the temptation of leaving it there.

Thanks a lot for your support guys, it means the world and I couldn't make it otherwise.

For those of you that like Norway x Fem!Denmark, I wrote an AU one-shot called 'sjoemannsvise' that you may like. And Norway is a sexy sailor in that one ;)


	11. It's her

't t'rns o't th're w's a pl't.

* * *

He welcomes the sea spray on his cheeks and against his clothes as he walks back to the city later, much later. After inevitably telling Eiríkur the whole story… more or less. Less.

But strangely enough, the strangest part of the whole thing had not come to the taciturn fisherman as a surprise.

"_A mermaid, you say?_" and he'd shaken his head, "_I'd have thought you'd know better than that, Norge._"

Norge'd shrugged that skepticism without further comment. She was different than whatever Eiríkur could possibly know about mermaids, but _he_ wasn't going to be caught _dead_ saying that.

"_Think all you want,_" his friend had told him, "_But I'm a fisherman. In Norway. Don't you think I've seen a thing or two out of the ordinary?_" And he'd sounded more or less amused.

"_Congratulations,_" Norge had commented dully, feeling inwardly exasperated at himself for a reason he couldn't name properly.

"_…though the name issue is something new,_" and Ís had chuckled. Actually chuckled…

And as he walks back home now, hands in his pockets, eyes strayed towards the straight blue horizon, he can't help recalling his friend's laugh and frowning like he frowns whenever there is something he can't understand.

_It's a girl, isn't it?_

_She must be a real princess…_

_… what's her name?_

He groans in frustration, takes a hand out of his pocket to massage the bridge of his nose as if that would actually help him. Help him. "It's a girl," Eiríkur had said, and there is just no way out of that one.

No damn way out because it's damn right true.

_Next time, fall for something that won't eat you while you sleep_, said Ís, damn him, he just told him too many things.

_"Get another hat, Norge… I'm not telling you this because I particularly care, you know that. But if you get another hat and soak it in human blood, it's as good as any."_

_"… why do you know that, brother?"_

_"Why wouldn't I?" he'd gestured towards his simple cottage that overlooked the beach, "Look where I live. I need to know some basics."_

_"Right," and he'd been skeptic. About Eiríkur's honest reasons. But he'd never for a second doubted that what he'd just learned was true._

And he doesn't like it, doesn't like it at all, it's all becoming too personal and too much a burden, and so much more than he thinks he can bear. Maybe he'll just flip it all to hell and go back to Oslo, to his boring apartment floor and routinely city life.

Blood, magic, love.

As if he'd suddenly fallen into a damned fairytale or something. Hans Christian Andersen or whatever. A Dane, damn him.

_Everyone knows mermaids are Danish, Norge!_

… great, now his mind is distorting things and plotting against him. He heaves a sigh and sits on a moss-covered stone almost where the waves break, knowing it is a spot he'll have to leave as soon as the tide begins to rise.

Damn Eiríkur. Damn him well damned. Norge can't undo it now. It's late.

Because now he knows what to do and he _can_, he rightfully _can_ finally get rid of that woman that pesters his life like that… only that he doesn't really want to. If he has to be honest with himself, the rarest occurrence of them all. He idly wonders, a fleeting thought, what it is she might want. To leave or to stay. Who knows. That doesn't matter now, what matters is the weight of the realization shaking his foundations. That if she leaves, it's not going to be because he's made things easier for her. Nevermind the detail of getting enough human blood to soak a hat, albeit small, in it. That's not important. It could be his own blood and he'd not care about it. He wouldn't mind it. It's not that.

It's not that.

_… I can't help liking you, Norge!_

The Gods help him. It's not that.

He buries his face in his hands, closes his eyes, and listens to the waves sway back and forth, back and forth, with thundering gentleness against the rock where he's sitting, and the seagulls mewl over water puddles; and he lets the landscape take over him. Maybe, if he's lucky, he'll either forget or fall asleep.

* * *

** A/N**

Short and angsty chapter. There had to be one somewhere, Norge isn't happy that he's fallen in love, as you see.

BTW, Norge, *that* was not the best place to take a nap.

{ Self-promotion moment! I wrote two Fem!Denmark x Norway oneshots- **_Sjømannsvise _**and **_Bubble world_**. Also AU. Check them out! ;) }

Aaand, what do you think now, guys? Suddenly the plot woke up! =D

...also. INEVITABLE HCAndersen reference. Sorry.


	12. of water pouring down

**IMPORTANT: **

**I'm CHANGING MY PENNAME to**

**[ witchfingers ]**

**be alert!**

* * *

The sky is blacker than black when he comes back to the world of the living, but that dreadful blackness not of the night, but of clouds pregnant with storm. Unwilling dread wells up in his throat, to add to the other bitter feelings that wrap around him like tight chains. The tide has risen and he barely makes it to the safe part of shore, hopping over stones slippery with moss, moisture and seaweed. He sees a small sailboat far in the distance, and he is thankful it's not him out there, when the first thick raindrop grazes his cheek on its way to the already wet ground. Saltwater and sweetwater, the scents rise to him and make him feel like he could be a new himself if he tried.

At least, something inside him feels a bit less heavy.

The sky scatters lazy droplets as he sprints over the lane that hugs the coast. He doesn't usually run, but he doesn't want the storm to hit him full force in the middle of nowhere. Strangely enough, it feels good to run for a change. Such movement makes him feel more alive than he's felt in a while, or at least alive in a different kind of way. In an 'I'm-breathing-and-free' kind of way, with the scented air beating on his face, the cool raindrops dotting his clothes, the solid ground under his feet.

Alive. Alone.

He's only entering back into the cobbled streets of the older part of town when the storm begins for real.

The world immediately becomes bleak and grey and aquatic, and, shivering despite himself, he must slow down to a walk if he doesn't want to slip on the wet cobblestones and end up making a mess out of himself. It's empty. There's not a soul out in the street, and, obviously, too. If he can see half a block ahead of him is saying too much.

"Ey!" Someone calls.

"Ey! Norge! Is that you?"

He halts, looks around wildly, squinting to try to make something out other than blurry facades and rain, rain, rain. His hair sticks to the sides of his face and his clothes are soaked beyond decency.

Suddenly there's a warm hand on his shoulder and he catches a whiff of a damn familiar scent.

"The hell are you doing out here?" he asks, even and blunt and mechanic.

She beams at him, he sees it clear and close because she's come to stand before him, soaked as much as he is.

"I came out to find you, duuh," she says, evidently pleased in having found him, "'Cause you left just like that, and the storm looks nasty, so… yeah." She could pass for nonchalant, too, if that damn sheepish smile didn't give her away.

He'll overlook the endearing detail of her being worried about him. He's right now too confused to know whether he wants her to remove her hand from his shoulder (like his rational mind suggests) or not, like some other odd urge would rather. Inwardly. Outwards, he's looking blankly at her, as if to question the idiocy behind her rushed decision.

She feels the need to clarify. "I was worried about you, Norge!"

He raises an eyebrow.

"There's always loads of drowned sailors sinking after storms like this," she adds, an afterthought that only confuses him further.

He points out they're on land.

"I know," she sighs, "I was worried anyway, huh. Can't help it." She shrugs and smiles at him, raindrops trickling and trickling down her pretty face, and somewhere between her words and her smile and her eyes, somewhere there, Norge accepts he's lost his footing.

The full weight of Eiríkur's words and warnings and spell-like advice dawns on him subconsciously but in his mind he only acknowledges the fact that she may be gone soon, that he can make her go, that he doesn't _want_ to make her go, because, well, damn her; and damn him.

"It's because you're an idiot," he mouths, however, bittersweetly. Succeeding in not betraying his maddening thoughts. Catching himself just on time before his cover falls. Like he always does.

All she does is laugh under her breath, play-punch him. "Come on, Norge. You're always like that," and she says it as if they weren't standing in the middle of a nameless street in an old seaside town, as if the sky wasn't raining like it wanted the world to flood, as if everything went like it was always meant to go. "But I like you, anyway. Wanna go back now?"

No, he doesn't. Everything spins just too fast, and for once, he'd like to know where he's standing.

"…Norge?" She's frowning. "Did something happen?"

You, oblivious little thing.

"Do you want to go back?" he asks.

"Some coffee would be awesome," she replies in all honesty.

He frowns softly. "That's not what I meant."

"Then what…" she frowns too, privately. "…oh."

"So?" It's not like him to be impatient. It just needs to be asked. It just needs to be known. "Do you?" Why does it sound like he's accusing her?

He never has a kind word to offer her even when he fervently wishes she'd say she doesn't, and he finds he regrets it.

"May be," she begins, thoughtfully, "… but it'd not be cool not to see you again. 'Cause I like you... I told you I like you, right?" she sounds scared when she asks that last part-

-and Norge is taking a step towards her and wrapping his arms around her following some instinct that was dormant somewhere deep, burying his face in her soaking shoulder and the rain replaced her scent.

He doesn't know what to say, so he just doesn't, and a while later her arms find their way around his waist and pull him close, and he doesn't really know how it's happened

but it still rains on them and now they're both getting colder,

except for Norge's hitched, nervous breathing against her neck.

.

.

the house smells like hot cocoa and cake and it's evident when they come in that they're not alone. Because there's quiet laughter coming from the kitchen and a damp, rumpled coat thrown over the sofa (where Norge sleeps, he notices with a frown), and she pulls his wrist to make him follow her until they're together getting warm by the fireplace,

her hand laced in his, although Norge's thoughts are too far away to notice that, and she's sighing contented looking at the pooled rainwater at their feet, listening to gentle talking from the kitchen.

A blonde woman with a charming smile brings fresh towels for them, she comments on the weather, tells them to dry fast or else their hot chocolate will become cold. Matthias asks who she is. Tiina, Norge answers distracted, Uncle Sve's fiancée, or wife, or something. She likes her, she comments, he hums something in response and hangs his head back. Matthias doesn't try to hide a frown.

"Hey, Norge… what's wrong?"

Everything, probably. From the warmth of the fireplace to his uncle and Tiina cooking in the kitchen; the faint scent of cinnamon and the homely air of it all. They're wet. They're ruining the parquet. Most likely, they'll never be the ones cooking in the kitchen but they'll always be the ones that will be wet and cold and misplaced like a greeting out of season, ruining someone else's perfect wooden floor, invading someone else's rainy afternoon.

And that's if they ever last. The back of his head rests against the chimney board and it smells like smoke when he inhales, and he's looking up at the ceiling in silence, silence, like always. She's looking at him.

"… Norge…?"

"It's nothing."

His hand is still in her hand, and she pokes his cheek with her free hand until he looks down at her eventually, focus falling on the world again with a surge of grief and the smell of sea water.

"I know!"

her voice rings different when she exclaims like that out of the blue, and for a moment Norge is startled enough to widen his eyes at her. But it passes.

"I think I know riiiiiiiiiight what you need!" she declares, and drags him by their hands that never stopped being linked. Up the stairs. Into the bathroom. He lets her do, flag him around and open the water warm and inviting, push him into the shower with his clothes still on, tell him she'll wait for him downstairs…

… tell him to come down before the chocolate gets cold,

to pull the door of the bathroom open and rush back in on him who knows when, later, later…. probably, yes, it's later already and he's not moved an inch, only stood under the warm water just like that, lost in his own thoughts. A storm of sorts, and he may drown if he's not careful. Who knows. Who cares.

She lingers in the doorway looking at him looking like she will…

burst out in laughter, "Norge…! You're still there!" she might squeal in amusement,

(_she's_ laughing at _him_…? well, it would make sense, huh? his mind tells him, huh, doesn't it make sense, Norge. Doesn't it.)

He turns the tap closed with a sigh but never gets out of the shower because she barges in with him utterly amused (she's got traces of cocoa around her lips, he notices idly wishing he didn't notice),

turns the shower on again scalding hot and he hisses a curse and fights to turn the cold water on too, and then it's all a mess and everything is getting wet, and now he's depressed AND annoyed, probably kind of tangled in her formerly cozy robe (now soaked and heavy and the deep burgundy is starting run and dye the water pink),

"Damn you, Matthias," he groans, steadying himself against the slippery tiles on the wall and won't she ever stop laughing?

"Damn, damn, damn," he says through his teeth again when she's somehow ended up closing the cold water tap again, until _slam!_, they have gracelessly tumbled out of the shower in disgraceful defeat, only that though Norge is sprawled on the floor, sore and wet and god-damn-her _burnt_, Matthias is laughing heartily stretched over his chest in an awkward way, and the shower is still running, swallowing the bathroom in dense, lukewarm fog.

"What the hell!" he exclaims, too vehement for his character, "What the fuck were you thinking?"

"Haha, well now that's more like it!" she says merrily, gathering herself to sit up, her legs still across him and the burgundy robe weighing down on them both, "You talking to me like that!"

He glares at her though his soaked bangs, that drip water over his face so profusely he might feel like he's got gills or something.

"There's still something you've not said to me yet, and I'm kinda missing it," she adds, as an afterthought,

He glares at her.

"Idiot. You've not called me an idiot yet, Norge!"

He glares at her, quirks an eyebrow, and hopes with all his might that his lips don't twitch enough to betray a smile,

when the door opens and two outlines stand against the fog.

"See, T'na?" a familiar voice reaches them, "They aren't hurt. Just being dead imm'ture."

"Yeah, well," Uncle Sve is answered, "When aren't you right, Sve? I had to worry, though, with all those noises up here…"

Silence. Of the uncomfortable kind.

"…what on Earth were you two doing anyway? Trying to tear the house apart…? And Matthias, kindly get my robe off Norge and off the floor. And Norge, just, what the hell."

And yeah. What the hell indeed. Norge shrugs.

"We felt like fooling around. So kindly get out," he states as if he wasn't there on the floor like that.

"Clean this up," his uncle instructs laconically, no malice.

Then they're alone again. She looks at him. He looks at her. And when she starts laughing again… he will swear he's not done it… he joins her for a while, too.

* * *

**A/N**

Norge is being so angsty xDDD

Thankfully he has Matthias to take him out of his state of deep emotional turmoil xD

SOrry for the delay guys, this chapter was soooooooooo hard to write.

What do you think about it?


	13. please, wake me up

.

* * *

Has it been two days, three days, a week…?

He wakes up every morning and she's there, as if she'd always been there, as if life were as easy as just waking up to her ready smile and hers and Tiina's cooking, uncle Sve reads a newspaper by the wooden table with a cup of coffee and a different kind of pastry every day, and, as he never takes a shower in the morning, he walks in and greets everyone rather bleakly, sits himself down and soon enough there's coffee and a smile for him from next to him where she sat down and engages in a one-sided conversation, telling him about her dreams, probably, because she's been dreaming a lot and strange too these last days that have been so routinary they feel like it's always been like this.

Only not, and when he today repeats it for the numberless time again, he feels dread well up in the pit of his stomach, dread masked by this bittersweet content at having someone fuss over him as if he were actually worth someone's time.

It's new, huh, it's nice. Unexpected.

… and temporary; and, therefore, unstable.

So although he drinks her coffee in silence and listens to her words that are directed at him, he is pushing her away because he's not ready for all this; all this that should have come with a confession he's yet to make.

Every morning he wishes he'll wake up to it all having been a dream.

.

* * *

**A/N**

More angsty!Norge.

I don't like him to be sad :(

Also, take this as an interlude... it's important to know how he feels, because things... happen in the next chapters.


	14. a night in town

.

* * *

It's a beautiful night, Norge knows it's too beautiful to last. Like almost everything in life, huh.

The doorbell rings, in suspicious cue with the ceasing of Matthias' whining to _let's go get drunk, Norge!_, and like he'd ever indulge. He's seen her drunk once and it was goddamned enough to last him for the rest of his life.

Tiina opens the door to let sea-wind in and a frosty chill, and with it comes someone Norge would have never thought he'd see crossing the threshold, kissing the hand of his almost-aunt with daunting charm, flashing a composed smile at her.

"Well, good evening, Sven," Eiríkur calls amicably to his uncle over in the kitchen, and a good natured, if monosyllabic, response floats all the way back to Norge's curious acquaintance.

"And good evening to you too, Norge," he adds, and Norge suspects something from the way his not-quite-brother is being too wordly this night. If he'd not known that Uncle Sve and Eiríkur used to go fishing together before Norge ever came to Bergen, he'd also doubt the reasons for the hermit to know his address. But, oh, well.

"What brings you here of all places, brother?" Norge inquires after Tiina's asked him if he'd like anything to drink and he's said no thanks, and Eiríkur's smile is unusual for two seconds.

He doesn't get to reply.

"What's up with y'all being all chatty all of a sudden?", Matthias asks, coming down the stairs, nosy and loud and pretty as always. Norge tries to mask his sharp intake of breath with a cough, but he doubts he was successful. He's appalled at the thought of Eiríkur and Matthias in the same room, although he doesn't exactly know why.

Eiríkur looks impassive at the beautiful creature that comes towards them, rubbing her eyes with the sleeve of the crimson bath robe.

"You could've had the decency to put on some clothes under that," Norge hisses when she is close enough to hear him, but she only giggles and dismisses his words as nonsense (when doesn't she?), and waves in a friendly manner at Eiríkur, who looks at her impassive, although Norge can easily make out the shimmer of recognition in his eyes.

"…Matthias, right?" he asks, reaching out for her hand.

She beams at him, gives him her hand thoughtlessly. "Oh, Norge, so you talk about me to the world out there? I'm…" she is distracted by Eiríkur's lips on her knuckles, a courtesy kiss just like he's done to Tiina.

But somehow the situation is different, and Matthias trails off, "… flattered. Who're you?" she asks, sparkles of confusion in her eyes as she looks between Norge and this stranger of the silver hair.

"Eiríkur, an old friend of Norge's. He's not told you about me…? Tch, tch, that's not very nice of you, Norge…"

Norge can only scowl at it all and wish he's not had to see any of it. Or better- that none of it is truly happening. The atmosphere is suddenly very strange and he doesn't want to appeal to silly improvable things like hunches. But he'd like it that Eiríkur just… left.

"I was on my way to town," Eiríkur says, as if on cue, eyes trained on Matthias in a way that makes Norge frown, "I thought I'd drop by before, though. We've never gone out for a drink together that I recall."

And he says so… so smoothly, so flawless, so dainty and so goddamned Eríkur that Norge can't think about the gesture or the invitation or the nothing, all he can do is try to keep his frown from ruining his perfect composture.

He knows what's going to happen next, feels it in his skin just like he's starting to know _her_; one… two… three…

"Oh, that's fantastic!" Matthias exclaims, all energy and clueless enthusiasm, "We should totally go, right, Norge?"

His lips are thinner than usual, pressed together in forced silence.

"Right, Norge…?" she repeats, tugging on his sleeve, looking at him like he damned holds the key to her happiness or something and he just wants everyone to leave him the hell alone… if for a second to put his thoughts in order.

Eiríkur looks on with the expression Norge best knows him to sport, superior, amused, condescending, and none of that at all because he pulls the blank-façade so accurately.

But Norge's known him for quite a while now, and he knows him.

"Give me a sec! Don't you leave without me!" Matthias says excited, running upstairs presumably to throw some clothes on.

That leaves Norge and Eiríkur silent by the threshold, looking at eachother with unreadable expressions.

"What are you playing at?" Norge asks, slowly. Stoically.

His friend shrugs. "I don't know what you mean. I thought it was time you got a night life yourself," he observes casually.

"You're a bloody hermit," Norge says through his teeth, much smoother than he thought he could, "When did _you_ get a night life?"

Eiríkur inspects his nails. "You'd be surprised. So, are you coming?"

"No, of course I'm not coming."

A voice behind him whines his name, coated in disappointment. "…you aren't…? But Noooorge, it'll be _so much fun_. Imagine all we can _drink_…"

Matthias' idea of dressing up for a night in town consists of an oversized shirt and jeans and sneakers, but damn she looks breathtaking in them. She looks breathtaking in whatever she chooses to wear, Norge thinks sadly as he watches them talk, his friend and his… ward? His creature…?

His…

Maybe she's nothing of his at all.

He watches them plan shortly, although he is standing there next to them he can't really remember what they were talking about the moment Eiríkur opens the door and they begin to go outside.

He watches them go.

Closing the door after them, Norge thinks with a pang of resentment that he thinks that the striped shirt that she was wearing seemed slightly… familiar.

.

* * *

**A/N**

angst

angst

angst

Writer's block, guys. Sorry for the long wait.

Ideas? Suggestions?

Love?


End file.
